AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“When I wanted to take her on a date, do you remember how he came over to talk to me?” I asked Mom.
“I do.” She nodded. “I thought it was a little odd, but he’s her dad. He was just worried about her.”
“He wasn’t—at least not in the way you’d think. He gave me a very long-winded speech about appropriate behaviors for two people engaging in a relationship.”
“I’m sorry, he what?” Mom demanded.
“I wasn’t allowed to put my arm around her, sit too close to her where our legs touched, and so on. No kissing, no hugging, and hand holding only allowed when in the presence of him or his wife.”
“That’s absurd.” It was, but it wasn’t the worst part. I could handle the rules. I followed his fucking rules like a goddamn champ just for her.
“He’d make Genevieve undress after every date so he could do a full inspection and make sure she hadn’t been… inappropriate with me,” I whispered. My head tipped back against the chair, my chest tightening. “I only found out one night when I went back to give her the sweater she left in the car and saw it through the window.”
The look on Genevieve’s face that night was fucking seared in my brain forever. Fear and guilt like he’d find something in all his scrutiny. And when she saw me through the window? I thought she’d die right there on the spot.
“Killian,” Mom began quietly, “what you’re describing… that’s sexual abuse.”
“Don’t tell her that,” I scoffed. I tried. Once and only once. She didn’t talk to me for over two weeks and not until I fucking groveled. It wasn’t that I had a problem with purity culture—I didn’t. What I had a problem with was the way her father abused his power over her and used purity and religion as an excuse for his behavior. The fear, guilt, and shame Genevieve experienced about her own body and her own life choices because of him… that shit was awful. That had nothing to do with purity or religion. That was all Phillip. “That wasn’t even the worst of it. He’d take her in for unannounced, periodical checks at a clinic in Copper Spring to make sure she was… to make sure she hadn't had sex. Gabby, too, when she was old enough.”
God, the words felt wrong coming out of my mouth.
“No.”
“She wasn’t allowed to say no, and he stayed in the room.” My voice broke. Fuck, my heart broke all over again for her. No child deserved that. “She always said he wasn’t… watching when the exam happened, but I still don’t quite believe that. I can’t lie about how fucking awful he is to them.
“The way he talks to her, the way he treats her… he groomed her. He fucking groomed both of them to be subservient wives. He had husbands picked out—arranged marriages with some like-minded fucks from another small town. There’s a whole community of them that share these fucking rules. Gabby got out when he tried to enforce it. The only reason he didn’t do the same with Genevieve was because of me. Because I’m a Byrne. Because the fucking status of being married to a pack leader was more. My name meant more than whoever the fuck the other guy was.”
I couldn’t entertain the thought of what would’ve happened to Genevieve if her parents went through with an arranged marriage.
“Image is everything to her father—how the community sees them, how others in whatever the fuck their religious group is sees them, how God sees them. Clothes were picked out for them, hairstyle, no makeup, limited mirror time to prevent vanity… all of it was designed to put their best foot forward. Skirts only, high necklines, long sleeves—proper attire for girls was what they called it. They even made her chemically straighten her hair when she turned seventeen because her curls were too much.” I sighed, doing my best to steady my breath. I fucking hated talking about it. I hated thinking about it. “Everything that made Genevieve unique, they actively destroyed. He dangled the… the eternal condition of her fucking soul as the reason why she had to listen. God wanted this for her, and if she didn’t, she’d go to Hell. If she didn’t, bad things would happen. If she didn’t, no one would want her. No one would love her. They made her into this… this fucking God-fearing Stepford wife. Serve God, serve her husband, serve her family, serve the community. Such fucking bullshit.”
“Why… why wouldn’t you tell me this?” Mom asked. “I could’ve helped. It was my job to protect everyone in the pack.”
“Because it’s not my place to tell.” I kept using that sentence over and over again. I just wanted them to fucking understand. “She loves him. God help me, that woman has a heart of fucking gold because, for all the awful things he’s done, she still loves him. And she wants him to love her—thinks that he loves her.”
“That’s not love,” Nolan said. The profound sadness on his face mirrored my own.
“When that’s all you know from the people who are supposed to love you, that becomes your standard of love.” What a horribly depressing fucking thought. “She doesn’t want people to know. I don’t think she could handle people knowing. She carries the shame so fucking deep, I don’t know that she can get away from it. I thought… at one point, I thought she could.
“When we got married and we moved into that crappy fucking apartment, I thought it’d get better. But it got worse.” I clenched and unclenched my fists. My hands were shaking. Alcohol? Anger? Anxiety? Who knew? “She… became this shell of a woman. Distant and quiet. She cleaned and cooked and did it all on repeat. Her parents sleep in separate rooms so she expected us to do the same. And when it came to…”
I faltered because fuck me. I couldn’t tell this story without divulging more personal shit than I ever wanted to with Mom. I frowned, staring at her. Damn it. No grown man wanted to talk about his sex life with his mom.
“I can’t get away with talking about this if I don’t fucking bring up our sex life,” I muttered. I glanced at my brothers, expecting a joke or snide comment but none came. “This can’t leave the fucking table. It’d kill her.”
“You already have my word, Killian,” Mom reminded me. “Safe space. And if these five give you any trouble, I’ll take care of it personally.”
That’d have to do. Still, I went back to staring at the ceiling because I couldn’t look at her.
“We waited until we were married, obviously,” I said. “But it didn’t happen on our wedding night. Or even that weekend. Six months. It took six months of trying to figure out what the hell she and I were doing before we did. And we only did it because she said it’d satisfy my curiosity. After that? Not a fucking chance. Sex was for procreation only, not pleasure. It was back to the fucking couch with me.”
“Oh, that poor girl,” Mom whispered. My poor dick. The case of blue balls I had sleeping in the fucking living room and not being allowed to touch my wife had been fucking awful.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I was fucking miserable. She never smiled and meant it. She never laughed. I couldn’t touch her, couldn’t hold her. I didn’t have a fucking wife. I had a fucking housekeeper who slept in what should’ve been my bed. We fought about it—well, I tried to fight about it. She’d cry, and I’d give up.”
I hated seeing her cry—always would.
“I made it one year before I realized I couldn’t do this for my whole life. It wasn’t fair—to either of us. So, I sat her down and gave her two options: we go to couples therapy and she goes to individual therapy, or we get a divorce. Divorce is a sin, so to her, that wasn’t an option. So, we started therapy,” I said. “It wasn’t about us—not for a long fucking time. It was about Genevieve and helping her work through her trauma. We fought about pants, t-shirts, her hair, the decorations in the house, sleeping in the same room with me on the floor.
